A Horse Named Sorrow (10 page)

He wasn't what you'd call a good patient. In fact, he wasn't patient at all.

Jimmy got angry.

“I'm sorry, Jimmy.”

“Not your fault, Shame.” And “I don't want your pity.”

I didn't give it to him. I held my breath and made him soup, fed him his meds and helped him bathe. I held my breath and told myself he'd get better because he always did. For a while.

I touched his forehead when he slept and saw how long his roots were getting. His brows would furrow during dreams.

How could I not tear up?

But Jimmy admonished me if I showed a long face. “Don't go there, Shame, come on, please.” Jimmy, who didn't cry, which just made me want to cry all the time.

So I had to go somewhere else to cry. To blubber really.
Pull yourself to-fucking-gether
, I'd shout at myself on the street.
Pull
.

Growling and barking helped. Sometimes I dragged my knuckles down brick walls until they bled, like old times, pre-Jimmy. That made me smile. That worked. Yes, out on the street, I could fall apart. In the name of Jimmy. And I'd murmur prayers to the Virgin, even, like Mom and I used to do, stop and light candles. I'd look up at the sky and plead and feel foolish.
Who was I talking to?
Because if God lives at all in this sorry rusted world, he's the flow of tears, the breath in and the breath out. Oxidation. And it's just a world of iron faces in the rain. And God— God ain't nothing but chemistry. And this motherfuckin' acronym that took Jimmy away?
This here's the King of the Jews
.

So I never painted Jimmy. In fact, I gave up painting when the fumes started to bother him. I dusted off my Canon that Mom had given me for high school graduation and went back to photography, since I was taking more and more walks anyway. I always saw things worth recording: faces, trees, buildings, a street called Easy Street that looked anything but. Tattoos of course: copulating elves, a well-hung Porky Pig in a fedora; and nails embedded in foreheads too; earlobes with holes big enough to hang iron skillets from (one boy I found had a mouse who liked to hang by its tail from such a hole). Tanya's old girlfriend Chloe had a forearm tattooed between her tits that ran down to her belly. I thought it looked like a big cock, the fist at the bottom being the cock-head, with her tits as its balls. Found art. I found lots of it. Like Dr. Pinski, and the rest of the numerous hungry ghosts who lurked around that city, I got into quantity.

But I never photographed Jimmy.

Out on the road, I made a habit of stopping at Catholic churches whenever I'd see them on account of an old superstition of my mother's that I always thought was swell. It goes like this: if you are a baptized Catholic, you get three wishes every time you enter a Catholic church that you've never been in before. I doubt she expected I'd still be practicing this after I'd left the church and childhood behind, but then again she probably hadn't expected I'd drop out of college and end up with soup for brains either—or widowed at twenty-one.

And since I'd never been to church in Napa, Geyserville, Ukiah, Willits, Laytonville, Garberville, or anywhere north of Vallejo for that matter, my trip was turning into a real jackpot, with lots more where that came from. But being of little faith, I always wished for the same thing, counting on a squeaky-wheel-gets-the-grease metaphysics. Or maybe I
only truly had
just three wishes.

In a little clapboard chapel in a place called Middletown, with nice, tall, stained-glass windows, and a cheesy ‘70s-era Stations of the Cross (all abstract and Braque-esque)—an obviously well-intentioned enhancement via Vatican II that aesthetically missed the mark—as well as some tired-looking velvet banners hanging from the ceiling, I plopped down in a pew and hummed my tune. Because that's what a prayer is, was, and will ever be—a song. All through my youth I'd sung pop songs to the Mother of God:
Hold me in your arms, just like a bunch of flowers, sing to me your sweetest song
.

Pull and wish. And I'd wish that Mom stopped drinking, that my dad was at peace wherever he was, and that Jimmy was okay in the bardo. Because according to the
Tibetan Book of the Dead
, which we read in bed once together—and which Jimmy suspected was close to the truth—Jimmy wasn't anywhere yet. He was still in the bardo—the in-between state, the space between lives, as in reincarnation—and according to the high lamas of Tibet it lasted forty-nine days. He was wandering—hopefully on his game—going toward the right lights and all. There were so many in that book and of every color and brightness— and you had to pick the right ones. Which is which? Like a cosmic SAT it was. Bad scores don't get you into college. You'll end up back here, or worse. Just forty-nine days, like a sale. And when the time expires, the jig is up and you're reborn wherever: womb, Buddhafield, celestial or hell realm; as a hungry ghost with a huge appetite and stomach and a mouth like a pinhole; or as an animal even. Well, as I understood it, anyway. And I was one sorry-ass Buddhist.

Still I counted each and every day for Jimmy. He'd been gone for about five weeks—thirty-three days to be exact—so he had two more weeks to go. They say if you're on your game early awareness-wise, you're out of the whole program by the first few days—sort of like passing out of freshman English. But that was only for Gandhi-type people or saints. The rest of us take the full forty-nine and are reborn.

“Hang in there, Jimmy.”

Pull.

And then I remembered, thirty-three days too late, that someone was supposed to read that book over you when you died. Something else to feel guilty about. Well, it's never too late. I could still chatter at him with what of it I remembered: “
Listen, o nobly born, to what I tell you now
… none of it's real, Jimmy. It's all a big show and a circus. Only love, Jimmy.”

But, in fact, it was
his
voice I heard—backasswards—reading to
me
:
Listen, o nobly born … listen
. Okay then.

There were, of course, precious few, if any, Buddhist temples on the American road, so I just kept visiting those churches. Genie in a bottle called a chapel. A wishing well is God. And I always prayed and made my wishes before the Virgin statues. I wanted nothing to do with the dudes, Jesus and the Father. The Father was mean and withholding, and Jesus looked already put upon up there on the cross. I didn't want to bother him. And I certainly didn't trust priests.

Not after Father Cavanaugh anyway. But it wasn't the usual story you hear. In fact, I'd pursued
him
, and my crush played out one day right under the big Easter banner after rehearsal for the passion play. I was playing Christ. No kidding. Stuff about how big I was getting, what it must feel like to be growing up. I was thirteen and he'd seen that twinkle in my eye, my too-long looks his way, noted my insistence on playing Jesus straight up, in a loincloth. Having to explain to me it wasn't appropriate in our community.

“But what about the truth, Father Cavanaugh?” I'd pleaded.

I remember exactly what he said: “Well, Seamus, the truth is not always appropriate. Some truths need to stay hidden. You know what I mean?” And he'd smiled.

I sure did. I was a bastard. And a little homo too. I got it.

Even then, just trying to find my way to my father. Just wanted the truth. Sort of. I think.

Then Father made his move. “One of those truths is, some boys like boys instead of girls.”

“I know,” I'd answered.

Silence.

Can I show you my loincloth?
crossed my mind, but I wasn't that precocious.

Maybe I wasn't interested in the truth at all. Maybe I was just crazy hot for Father Cavanaugh. He was what you'd called Black Irish. All the church ladies were crushed out on him.

But I got him.

I was blown away.

I remember wanting to wear a mink coat after that, which confused me considerably. Something about being his pet, all furry, self-contained, like a little nest.

I gave the church ladies odd looks during mass that unnerved them.

I got a new down jacket and pretended.

It was like twice a week for a month, and then the maid walked in.

I never saw him again. The worst part. They sent him away. He wasn't the bad guy. They were. But somehow I ended up taking the fall.

My mother, a mess of tears when I came home and began denying it all when she asked. I'd never seen her do anything but the weeping kind of crying, but she was really putting it out that afternoon. I was scared. I was nailed. And I was the last to know.

Inappropriate.

I ran. She screamed after me, heartbroken.

I couldn't help it—tears just erupted.

I ran harder.

Maybe I should have stopped.

I didn't dare.

I ran all the way to the BART station, no small distance. I figured I'd take BART to San Francisco and look for a homeless Vietnam vet to take me in. All about my father, the whole mess.

As it turned out, I didn't have enough money for BART.

So I went to Ricky's, but he wasn't home. Ricky was one of my only friends. Another kid who didn't have many. He was also a goth and had all sorts of pagan ideas about the power of nature. We had a special place we'd go to—a little ravine up in the hills, full of oaks and rocks, a creek bed that was usually dry. I remember always getting burrs in my socks coming and going. The price of satori. What Ricky really needed was a disciple, but I actually was more interested in him because he was cute and all serious. He had the palest skin and the darkest hair, with eyes as blue as a husky dog's. He'd make circles with rocks under the oak trees, and tell me about druids and serpent power and that we needed to find some human bones.

But I didn't need bones just then. I needed to calm my nerves. I climbed in his window and found his pot, scrounged for what money he had and stole it. Eight dollars and twenty-three cents.

Then I ran up to our secret place in the hills.

I got myself royally stoned on his pot and calmed down some. I needed a plan. I had eight dollars, which would cover BART, the cost of some dog biscuits for the vet's dog, and a few bucks left over for a bottle of Thunderbird.

But what I really wanted to do was find out where Cavanaugh was. I'd rather live with him. Mink coats, my own chalice, and all the communion wafers I could stomach. Dipped in guacamole, with sacramental wine for a chaser.

I knew I was talking crazy, thinking crazy. The dread was creeping up on me. I'd done a terrible thing. Untenable. What was I thinking? My mother. I'd wounded my mother. My poor wounded mother. Bleeding already, and I'd gone and shot her again. I was just like my father.

I cried.

I knew I couldn't escape.

Well, the game was indeed up.

No ability back then to pull.

Nobody to squeeze it out of me.

It hit me then that I'd killed my dad (his memory so holy and intimate that anything that hurt my mother killed him all over again, not to mention my birth coming right after his death, which forever implicated me) and now quite possibly my mom—who knows who else would follow like some sick chain reaction? Maybe people will figure Ricky's a fag since he's my friend and they'll kill him too. And it will be my fault. I realized, in my thirteen-ness, that I was a serial killer without ever having done anything but take off my clothes. Betrayed everyone who loved me. Didn't even get a bag of silver out of it. What a rip-off. Well, Cavanaugh was my bag of silver. Same size when I cupped them in my hand.

Well, he was gone. So be it, I concluded high-mindedly. It was my duty to put a stop to the whole mess. I'd started it, I'd finish it.

Eight dollars was plenty.

What I had to do was get to Rexall Drugs.

I went to Rexall, and tried to buy all three bottles of Robitussin at once. But the clerk, a high school kid, clean-cut and no stranger to robotards, said “limit one per customer” in a snooty smirk. It wasn't like he cared; he just wanted to bully a little kid and make it hard for him to get high. What had the world come to?

“I have twelve brothers and sisters; they're all sick.”

“You don't look Mexican,” he snapped racistly.

I assured him: “My name's Jesús.”

He sold me one bottle, and so I had to go over to Longs and then Payless. All they had was cherry-flavored in each place, which I didn't like. “Beggars can't be choosers,” Mom would have said. Thanks, Mom. Always lending a helping hand, even on suicide watch.

I returned with my booty to the hills, which got me thinking about Ricky, who was going to be mad at me for stealing his money and pot. He might even be there waiting for me, conjuring up something worse than death by Robitussin. I didn't want to suffer. Ricky was into black magic. Lately, he'd been attempting to curse several teachers with hair-balls and such—and he'd started talking about girls and how we could use certain candles to get them to like us.

And right then, as I crested the hill to find he was not there, gazing out across our ritual circle of stones—sorry to have stolen from him and devastated that he was trying to conjure up girls—some other part of my screeching, bird-fallen-out-of-its-nest heart cracked like a little robin's egg. I was in love with him.

Life was so sad.

Yes, like a bad cough. I downed one bottle straight up, laid back, and whimpered. Then I started on the second, which made me feel profoundly nauseous.

Down the hatch it went.

Ten minutes later, I barfed, which probably saved my life.

The first bottle took though, as I started hearing voices: my mother calling my name, ghostly: “Seamus.” Oh shit. Then my own voice, out loud and with gravity, saying, “I think this was a bad idea.”

Too late now.

I put on my Walkman and played my Beach Boys:

Wouldn't it be nice if we could wake up
…